In Glen St. Mary, a light wind caressed blood-red maple leaves, and sometimes a blackbird hopped on the neat lawn of Ingelside, the house seemed shrouded with bleak sadness.

Betty Meade passed Irene Howard with a polite nod as she passed her on the street on her way to Carter Flaggs. Irene turned and said in her strikingly sonorous voice, "Betty, I am so torn by the fate of Walter Blythe. What a fine boy he was! You know he was almost my cavalier. I was the first one he told of his enlistment. If my brother would have fallen, I would walk around in deep mourning all the time, but Rilla only wears her white dresses, as if nothing had happened. As if she did not care at all, and he was supposed to be her favorite. And then some people say that Mrs. Blythe have refused Rilla a mourning dress."

Betty Meade, glanced at Irene's elegant walking dress, which appeared to be an atelier production, maybe from Charlottetown, or even from Kingsport, as she said briefly, "You know very well, Irene, that Rilla never wears any other color than white, and that suits her best. Rilla is wonderful girl. Maybe some years before I thought that she was, a little bit vain, and proud as her sister Nan is, and giggly, but not now. And even you can admit Irene, that things in our Red Cross wouldn't go half as well if Rilla didn't organize things."

Irene shrugged her shoulders, and said in her poisonously sweet way that she sometimes had, " I can almost redily admit that little Rilla is a born manager. Commanding people always are, she has been so cold towards me, just because I got of the little orphan child who lives in Ingelside as a fosterling, to laugh. It was purely my mothering instict, I knew that the child, sweet but underdeveloped, was so dreadfully bored there. So I played with him a little, and all the while Rilla looked me as I was commiting murder in front of her! And as for Una Meredith, can you believe she very meanly forbade me to decorate the church-altar, when I brought a few flowers from our garden to brighten up that so dreary, and ecohing space. I am so exceedingly sensitive that the smallest slights affect me very deeply."

"Irene, that dress of yours is really stylish. I've admired it often in these past weeks. Can you tell me where you got it? It's the wrong shade for me, but if I could get the pattern somewhere", Betty said in effort to distract her. Irene smiled contentedly. Her fingertips lightly stroked her narrow skirt, the color of a ripe plum, which matched perfectly with her blond hair, she said in a light, condesending tone. "You probably won't get the patterns for this dress anywhere. This dress is almost Parisian fashion."

Irene lowered her voice almost to a whisper, though there was no one on the road. "Betty, I can tell you with confidence that when I visited Kingsport, that was a special case. There I performed and sang at several at local events, and they were all quite different from our attempts here!" "When you were in Kingsport, did you meet Blythe girls there? I understand they're quite active in their local Red Cross chapter, and they study in Redmond?" Betty quieried.

Irene's wide forget-me-not-blue-eyes narrowed a little, as she heard Betty's question, and she replied with a light, honeyed laugh, " Now that I think about it, maybe I got a glimpse of Di Blythe, because her hair is so red. I usually spent my afternoons in most pleasant and polite company. In a café, with hot cocoa, and roses made of marzipan. City-life has quite lot to offer a girl, you know, not at all like this sleepy little Glen."

There are thousands of small currents, quarrels, and disputes in village life. For a moment two half-acquaintances collected their thoughts. The wind blew one page of the Daily Enterprise down the street - the headlines were just black smears. Carter Flagg erased yesterday's offers from his blackboard in front of his shop, and wrote new ones in their place.

Then Irene suddenly embraced Betty and said in her overflowing style, " There are a thousand things to attend to, for I am appearing in the Glen's choir next Sunday, singing a solo."

And Irene went.

Soon rows of spruce guarding the bend of the road covered her shapely figure.

Betty sighed, the sigh, she had been holding back for a time. She had been forced to defend Rilla, against Irenes slights, as she had become a close friend in the past year. Betty didn't believe the rumors that whispered that Irene had been performing in some mansion with several rooms and a most romantic atmosphere.

Betty chuckled as she remembered the look on Mrs. Marshall Elliot's face when she saw Irene walk down the Manse´s church center aisle to Howard's pew, showing off her new clothes. Susan Baker had muttered, "Howards never have any sense of decency." Rilla's face had been wan and tired, as she had glanced anxiously at Anne Blythe, who had come to church for the first time since the death of her son. Mrs. Marshall Elliot had kept people at a distance by the force of her personality. After service, Mrs. Blythe had exchanged a few words in a low voice, with Rosemary Meredith. And the MacAllisters and the Drews and some of the Douglases had looked their way curiously. Betty had noticed that Una Meredith had sat where she was, as if she were rooted. Every now and then she had glanced at the beautiful organ, which had not been played that day.

At Carter Flagg's store, Betty encountered Mary Vance, who said in her boastful way, "I just came from Manse. I took fresh bread there. All those Harvest-time collections and campaigns, and circulars, that neither Rosemary nor Una have had recently time to bake. I almost tripped over Bruce's cat because he was playing piano, again. Although Cornelia has done wonders for my upbringing, and I have a strong singing voice, it's nice to sing hymns in church, I've never bothered to read sheet music. Although if I put in effort, I would definitely learn, because if something is shown to me, it sticks in my mind, and I won't forget it, and Cornelia has noticed that over the years." Betty nodded, and murmured something commonplace, bought her flour, and left Mary Vance in the yarn department.

She felt somewhat relieved, because first Irene, and then Mary Vance, that was far too much for afternoon. And as she walked homewards Betty pondered that maybe she should do something nice for Rilla: bake something, or could she sew Jims little mittens or a woolen cardigan. Maybe in blue navy thread, it might cheer them both up, and the color suited Jims, all blond and cherubic as he was, with the most darling dimples on his cheeks.

Rilla leaned against the post of Ingelside's verandah, and looked at the clear, spherical sky. The blazing yellow aspens were shaking their leaves, and there was already a slight touch of cold in the air.

In the living room, she met Gertrude Olivier's, searching and sympathetic gaze. Gertrude had been sitting, in one of the armchairs, correcting a small pile of essays, which she now put aside in a folder. She reached out her hand and said gently "Well, Rilla-my Rilla."

Rilla tried to smile with trembling lips, but the smile didn't come. Gertrude's dark gaze was deep, and somehow so understanding. Rilla impulsively embraced her and softly she whispered, "Mumsy let me read Walter's letter to her. It was extremely beautiful, especially the part where he wrote about Rainbow Valley and his experiences in Paris." Rilla felt Gertrude startle, as if stung. And somewhat curiously, Rilla looked at her. Gertrude seemed a little pale, and in a subdued voice she inquired, "Was there anything special about Paris in Walter's letter?" Rilla frowned, and tried to remember, and finally she said, "Just descriptions of art experiences, in Louvre, and description of the sunrises." "Nothing to do with experimental continental literature, then?" Gertrude inquired.

Rilla chuckled lightly, amused, and uttered "No, just musings of his work and its possible future significance, which will surely be the most brilliant in the history of Canadian poetry," Rilla declared, loyal.

Gertrude Olivier glanced at the slender, lithe, so brave girl sitting next to her, and her heart ached. Walter's loss was heartbreaking, it had almost broken Ingelside's inner harmony. And throughout September, Gertrude had quietly followed Anne's struggle against severe depression, which seemed to be gathering around her like a dark cloud. Thousands of times Gertrude had meant to write to Di at Redmond, but the letter had always gone unwritten.

And then Rilla said in musing manner, "When Di and Walter left for Redmond, the piano has been silent, all these months. You and Walter sometimes played together often on days like this."

Gertrude nodded, and at the same time she saw this room in her memory, in the glow of the July moon, and Walter's half-shadowy figure, and the music that glowed like a deep unspoken sorrow.

Curious, Gertrude crossed over to the instrument, and looked at the sheet music that was on the piano.

Anne Blythe felt extremely tired.

The curious, sincere looks of the inhabitants of the Glen, helpfulness of Mrs. Cornelia, gentleness of Rosemary, and the careful remarks of Susan, did not seem to touch her at all, as if some gauze was between her and the rest of the world, a gauze that had come back. For, years before, when Joy, had passed on, her violent grief had almost torn her to pieces. It was only with difficulty that Anne had decided to fight, not for herself, but for Gilbert, for the future and family they both dreamed and worked towards. The hole that had always been in her heart, the piercing feeling of loneliness and orphanhood, had slowly faded away, as loving years of Gilberts care, and teasing had bloomed and more children were born. On some level Anne had always known that her volatile early years had wounded her. So, now the loss of Walter, her darling, seemed to bring to the surface all buried emotional memories as well. Her arrival at Green Gables, and the loving, if stern care that she had recived there, had polished some of the sharpest edges away, there were still scars, and they throbbed, so.

Anne lazily glanced small pile of letters from Leslie and Diana. She didn't have energy to pick up a pen and write anything. And with a sigh, Anne got up from her favorite armchair. One of Gilbert's ties had been thrown carelessly on the dressing-table, and with soft fingers Anne touched its smooth surface, as she remembered the pain in Gilbert's hazel eyes, when he had carefully embraced her, after reading Walter's letter.

Then afternoon silence of Ingelside was broken.

There was music, it flooded from the living room. And feeling a little curious for the first time in weeks, Anne crept downstairs and stopped at the threshold. A soft gray light from the windows surrounded Gertrude Olivier as she played, a caressingly soft, almost waltz or lullaby-like note rose and fell, like a child's breath. There was something extremely comforting, and sweet about it, a wistful nostalgic melody, and as Anne listened Gertrude coax unspoken, delicate notes, out of their battered piano, she found herself missing Marilla, her spiky warmth, and no-nonsense-attitude. Quietly Anne crept up and embraced Rilla.

The strains music slowly faded. Gertrude turned in her creaking piano chair, and looked at her audience. Anne's eyes were bright. Rilla looked enlightened, and excited, just as if this little piece of music, or the memories of her brother, would have given her more strength. Softly Gertrude said, "The composer is Dvořák, and this was the fourth piece, Songs of my Mother Taught Me, from his Cigánské melodie op.55 cycle. There are also English lyrics for this song, but for some reason these notes only have Czech and German, which is a bit strange."

Rilla murmured under her breath with slight italics in her intonation. "So can we blame Lowbridge's Alice for this. For whenever Alice was here Walter or Di never saw the rest of us. I'm sure she was the one who had found my brother those notes, or maybe it could have been Di. And they live together in the same rented cottage, some romantic herbal name, remember Mumsy?"

Anne glanced at Gertrude, and noticed that Rilla's former teacher's expressive, often so serious face, had a strange look that she couldn't make out, like some flash of insight. And then the expression disappeared and Gertrude laughed her heartwarming way, "Rilla, Rilla. You must accept that your brother has, or had friends, even outside the enchanted circle of Ingelside." Anne said lightly, "Nan and Di, and Faith Meredith, and Alice Parker really share the living expenses, in Primrose Hollow, just as I did in my Redmond years, living at Patty's Place, with dear Stella, Pris, and Phil. Oh, what fun we had, conversations, cats, and walks. Pihl was the one of us who had the liveliest social life, but I wasn't a wall rose, either."

"What about the suitors, or were you buried in your studies," inquired Gertrude. Anne glanced warningly at Gertrude, but Rilla was looking out the window, a dreamy look in her eyes, so Anne just said lightly "There was one, but in the end we weren't right for each other, at all. His little sister was extremely nice to me. A real kindred spirit."

Rilla came back from her dreams to reality, and pointed out in her practical way, "You write to Nan and Di almost every week. So you can ask them if you think it's important. It might be that they already know this family member, because aren't Redmond's circles pretty small?"

Anne thought of Dorothy Gardiner's sincere, somewhat impulsive words years ago, "Anne, I'm so glad you didn't accept Roy. He may look like a Greek statue, but he's not very interesting. He is learned and smooth, but a little stiff, and brooding, and he has sinister streak in him, embedded deeply. Now I have to listen to him rant for hours on end, because, I'm the only one who listens to him. He sometimes can open his heart to me, but only certain times, as Adeline is Adeline, and our mother is now on a holiday on the Riviera." The light had splashed on Dorothy's fresh face, and her braids, when she had added " I'm glad you've been spared the atmosphere of the Hall, it's my home, but sometimes the whole place seems like the scene of a mediocre gothic love-tragedy. All that old-fashionedness, and shadows, and furniture, airiness is completely missing. Maybe, some decades from now, I might be able to pave the way for your future possible children in Redmond, unless I'm somewhere overseas." Anne had laughingly promised. Afternoon had ended with Aunt Jimsie's incomparable chocolate cake, and Rusty climbing in everywhere. Anne had watched, from the doorway of Patty's Place, as the slender figure of Dorothy Gardiner, dressed in dark blue, leaped into the cab waiting in the road. And the overriding feeling in Anne's mind had been indescribable relief, as if she was finally freed from something indescribable. The years had passed and Redmond's memories had faded. And then one day in spring, Ingelside had received a letter from Phil, who still had networks in the Kingsport´s various Bluenose circles. Anne had glanced at wedding announcement and assorted the newspaper-clippings, just cursorily, the headlines were all lurid from different newspapers and society pages:

Renowned international business-tycoon R. Gardiner, married at last. The bride is French, and Catholic. Is Gardiner Hall finally to be renovated, no longer a crumbling ruin?! The Gardiner shares are going finally up! Anne noted that Royal Gardiner looked calculating, and very successful, and that his future wife seemed fair and she had delicate air.

Shaking off the old memories that had taken over her so, powerfully, Anne smiled distractedly at Rilla, and said "My dear, you may very well be right, but it's not likely. You never know, though. And as for Alice Parker, what if we ask her here for Christmas?" Gertrude, nodded thoughtfully, and remarked, "We don't know at all what arrangements Parker lass might have in place, but if she comes, then perhaps we shall hear this Dvorak in its entirety?" Anne glanced at Gertrude, and inquired "What exactly do you mean?"

Silently, Gertrude held out the sheet music, and Anne saw in the top corner a messy observation written by beloved hand." 1915, July, Alice, if anything happens to me, present this on the first Christmas in Ingelside. Gertrude is an excellent pianist if Di is bound on kitchen duty. Love, as ever, W.C.B."

Sudden silence was broken only by Rilla's humming, it was Hesitazion's Waltz, as Jims gurgled heartily.

And then it was Sunday.

Glen presbyterian church were half full. Una Meredith caught a glimpse of Irene Howard out of the corner of her eye. A few moments before, Irene's recognizable voice had echoed down the hall, bright, like cold sunshine, and the pages of the hymnals had turned in the hands of the Glen congregation, like decaying autumn leaves, a light, humming rustle, above which Irene's voice had glowed, sweet, supple, like honey, but without sincerity, completely detached. This moment, for her, was not a way for finding unity of souls in Christ, but an opportunity to be seen.

Afterwards Una put the stacks of hymnals back in the cupboard, as she lingered a little while in the empty, somewhat echoing church. She caressed with her fingertips Blythe family's regular pew where he had been sitting, and fixed her wistful eyes on the ceiling, where perhaps soon a memorial pennant would hang, Sacred to the loving memory of W. . The dark blue stone of her haircomb shimmered in the light, it absorbed all the shy shadows, the milky grayness that flooded in through the large church windows. Straightening her back, Una closed the door with a creak.

Una arrived Manse with her cheeks reddened by the wind, the landscape through which she passed was like an unfinished watercolor work, all the glowing shades of late autumn had faded into grayness. Rosemary handed Una a hot, strong cup of tea and said, softly, "There's a letter for you from Redmond." Una froze, her fingers were clutching the soft blue neckerchief tightly. Bruce's cat came to paw at her feet. Rosemary continued even more gently, "I think it's from Alice Parker." Una nodded, or maybe she just imagined nodding, and softly moved cat aside, and took letter from the dresser, and sank into the only free armchair in the living room that wasn't full of Bruce's things; wooden toys, and drawings, and copies of sheet music. Rosemary's Christmas cake spices smelled in the kitchen, ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon, and a touch of brandy - an old West family recipe.

The pages of Alice´s letter rustled.

Primrose Hollow, 1916

Dearest Moonlight!

My world is gray and withered, like Hardy's verses. Those grey and serse, flowing lines, full of creeping anguish, of love departed, or nature slumbering, until verdant spring comes again. It has been that way since. Well, I'm sure you know what I mean, as anyone who played with him can't help but be aware of his bright, overly idealistic and completely impractical soul. Eternal dreamer that he was. I know our names were linked together over the years, in village gossip, but I can tell you with absolute clarity that I loved him, but only in a deeply platonic way. There was not a shrad in romance in our kinship of souls.

Una, you love music, and poetry in a slightly different way, than I do, or he does. And yes, I write in the present tense on purpose. For he lives on, somewhere, in the autumn wind that sways the branches in Rainbow Valley, in the first violets of spring, in the blackbird that sings his flute-like songs, or in the scent of the lilac flowers, in the summer evenings. His poems, they will not die, though he is gone from us. Christmas season is coming, soon, but before that we have to get through All Saints' Day, when the veil between the past, the present, and eternity is very delicate, and the whispers of longed and departed souls may echo, also in our ears, if we listen closely. But I don't want you to torture yourself by standing in the heart of the night in Rainbow Valley, waiting for a whisper that might not come, because this mechanized, destructive world of ours, is not a Brontë sisters' story.

So instead, I'm sending you now, something he sent me.

I truly think he wanted you to have it, he just did not have the time or forsight to send it to you personally.

Loving regards

A.P.

Una crossed her cold, clammy hands. Her pulse were stuttering. Light of oil lamp, rested strongly on the ragged, torn, and dirty, worn sheet, from which Walter's handwriting jumped out.

And somewhere far away in a village untouched by time,

a black-haired maiden sits,

she plays an old piano,

the worn notes are decaying,

and the sharp September wind enchants open curtains,

as music like pure moonlight

flows out into the fading evening.

A cold crescent moon glows in the sky,

and the girl skillfully plays to the moon,

a haunting, lingering

note that brings to mind water nymphs,

old fairy tales,

curses and blessings,

and the sweetness of hawthorn berries.

Una read two short verses, and her heart nearly jumped into her throat. Slowly her suppressed tears flowed, finally free, they were glistening on her cheeks, and as if in a dream, Una went to the piano and began to play. In the kitchen, amidst her spices, Rosemary stopped her cake-batter-stirring. Una played the piano, for the first time in weeks, light, baroque splendor of Händel Semele were shimmering through the house.

Bruce smiled, and ran to Una's side, as he called out in a loud voice, "Una-moonlight, would you please play, Erlköning next?" And soon Händel was switched to Schubert's Fairy King, whose tone was dark and brooding, alternating between the keys of G minor and E minor, in a sweet, chilling sequence, and Bruce's eyes shone with happiness, for blissfull music had returned, and surely Una was now going to be better, and not so sad, all the time.

Rosemary glanced at the letter that had fallen on the floor, and the smudged note, beside it, and she recognized the handwriting. Rosemary felt her fears cease, for Una´s features were calm, and resolute, as if cleansed. The mute pain that had been in her eyes, like slight whispering beat of a moth's wings, was temporarily gone, replaced with burning, fleetingly, vivid look of contenment. Notes flowed, like moonlight, like all the music Una hadn't been able to play flooded over suddenly.

A/N: Dvorak´s op 55 is the most perfect October-November music. You can never have too much Händel, his shimmering baroque compositions are very queer if you want to interpret them that way. Schubert´s Erlköning is all Halloween, full of spirits and creeping shadows.